Barclay

Miss Holly and I cross the threshold, following Don inside. Classical tapestries hug the walls of the entryway, along with several large cats. My nose twitches. I try not to recoil when a fluffy gray one approaches me, weaving through my legs, pressing against my slacks. The guards at Buckingham Palace don’t stand as still as me. Thankfully, Miss Holly bends down, reaching out a hand toward the furry creature.

“What a sweetie pie,” she purrs as the cat moves toward her. She tickles her fingers under the cat’s chin. “What’s its name?”

“That’s Darcy,” Don says. Another cat saunters over to greet Miss Holly. I might end up needing an epi-pen before I leave this house. “Along with his companion, Elizabeth.”

“Literary names. I love it.” Miss Holly stands up, and it’s a damn good thing too. I caught a glimpse of white lace peeking out from under the edge of her short hem. I’m facing death by dander and trench coat.

“My wife, Gertrude, keeps adopting these four-footed animals. After all, Saint Gertrude is the patron saint of cats, though she does let me name them. Catsby’s over in the corner.” Don points to a sleek black feline sprawled near a marble statue of Venus. Figures he’s seated at the foot of a love goddess.

I sneeze a couple times. Shit. My neck feels itchy too. Wonder if we can take the meeting outside …

“You okay, Barclay?” Don asks.

“Allergies,” I cough out between sneezes. Where were all the cats during his sixtieth birthday party?

“You need some fresh air. Let’s talk out on the veranda,” Don says, then turns to Miss Holly. “Do you work for Hammond Press?”

“I do not,” she says, looking at me to fill in the blanks.

What are they really? Who is she? That’s the better question.

The hot girl I saw last night shows up in my office, wears a trench coat while her clothes are cleaned, and I’m using her to get you to open the door. Yeah, that doesn’t sound professional, or believable given she looks like a strip-a-gram.

“We’re friends. She’s visiting from Alabama.”

“Oh.” Don darts his eyes between us. “Family friends then?”

“Something like that,” I say before I can even think. What’s wrong with me? I never lie. I’ll blame it on my brain fog from the cats and virginal panties.

Don squints one eye and shakes his head. One glance at Miss Holly’s shocked expression makes me wonder if he knows the truth.

“Tessa. It’s all right if I call you that, since you’re Barclay’s friend?”

“Of course. I’m not used to being this formal around friends.” She looks at me, eyes full of mischief.

“Would you mind entertaining yourself in my library while Barclay and I talk business?”

“Your library? Really?” she asks with eager surprise as Don nods. “I can’t believe it.”

“It’s the second room on the right.” Don gives her a warm smile and leads us down a hallway with an arched entrance. He opens a large wooden door, and we enter into the library. “Help yourself with anything on the shelves. My library is yours.”

Bookcases line the side walls, while the back one has floor-to-ceiling windows, letting light pour into the library. The sun catches Miss Holly’s golden hair, making an angelic halo, and I can’t look away from her. Her beauty leaves me breathless—or it’s the felines.

“It’s beautiful. Thanks,” she says in a dreamy voice.

Holding her hands to her chest, she walks toward Don and stops in front of him. She reaches up on her tiptoes to give him a quick kiss on his cheek. Pleased with himself, and her, he smirks. I ball my fist.

“You’re welcome,” he sputters. Southern women.

He bends down to pick up a small kitten standing near his feet. The cat’s fur is a butterscotch color. Calico, I think, and a damn cute one too. “I’ve named this little guy Shakespurr after a new blog I found. Have you heard of it?”

Don looks at me for an answer, but I have no clue. I shift on my feet when Miss Holly pipes up, hopefully saving the day again.

“I know that blog,” she gushes with excitement.

“My agent turned me on to it. It’s not every day a millennial crowd get books written by an old man like me.”

“That’s not true. Believe me. I’m one of your biggest fans,” she exclaims, then proceeds to turn bright red and bows her head. “I swore I wouldn’t say that.”

When her shoulders fall, I want to tell her not to worry, because he hears that all the time, but that’s likely the very reason she’s embarrassed. It’s what everyone says to him.

“What was your favorite book?” Don asks, a big grin on his face, eating up this beautiful young woman’s attention. Where’s his wife anyway?

“His Secret was your best thriller, in my opinion.” Miss Holly gives him a dazzling smile. “You’re the king of writing palpable tension. Never letting the reader know how you plan on peeling the onion.”

“Wow.” Don whistles, and I stand amazed at Miss Holly’s assessment. She’s nailed his unique brand. It keeps the pages turning and the books selling. “You truly are familiar with the Shakespurr blog. It’s almost exactly what they said about the book.”

“Uh-huh,” she singsongs, tilting her lips in a smile of victory. She should be proud she cracked this stubborn man’s crusty exterior.

“Follow me to the kitchen, Barclay. You need meds before your lips take over your entire face.” Don crooks a finger over his shoulder as he walks toward the library door.

“Great,” I grunt.

I touch my lips. Damn fluffy fur flying in the air. One cat makes me sneeze and scratch, but apparently a house full of felines requires major drugs.

“Behave,” I whisper to Miss Holly before I follow behind Don.

She bites her lip, and damn if I don’t want to kiss the living breath out of her. Aside from her not being an employee, it’s best we are separated during my talk with Don. Everything about her distracts me to no end.

Once in the kitchen, Don turns on his oven and places his tart inside it. He gives me a glass of water, along with a Claritin. I swallow back the pill, hoping the medicine works quickly. I need to be sharp with so much at stake today.

Don shows the way to his large veranda, and I swear this house needs a map to navigate the rooms. Once outside, we look over a sculptured garden where a glimmering pool shines in the late morning sun. Thankfully, I don’t see a cat in sight.

“Gertrude likes to open the pool the first of May, though the water feels like the Artic until late July.” Don guides me to a large wrought iron table with cushioned chairs. “Please, sit.”

We both take a seat, and I set my glass of water down on the table. Clearing my throat, I begin.

“Don, we need you at the Warwick Awards Saturday night.” I hold nothing back. After all, he’s only giving me fifteen minutes. “Why haven’t you answered a single email or call from us?”

“I was waiting,” he says, picking a piece of invisible lint from his pants.

“For what?” His answer perplexes me. I can’t read minds. “Is Mort offering you more?” I adjust my collar.

“Hell, he’s always offering me more, but that’s not the reason I haven’t responded.” Don takes a breath before continuing, and I find myself on the edge of my seat—and possibly my career. “I was waiting for you to reach out to me.”

“Me?” It makes no sense. “Fill me in.”

“Well, your father was my go-between at Hammond Press, and I was expecting the same thing from you after he left. Instead, I was shuffled off to an editor.”

“I had no idea you were such a diva.” I laugh, and Don smiles. “So that’s it? If I work with you, you’ll come Saturday night?”

“Believe me. I was going to show up. Though, I wasn’t sure which table I would sit at. Mort happened to mention he had an empty chair.”

My jaw tightens at the thought of Don at Mort’s table. Mort’s mocking smile flies through my mind, though I imagine his yellowing teeth.

“I bet he did,” I retort. “I’ll let my editor know you’re straight lined to me moving forward.”

“I was giving you until tomorrow. By the way, the cherry tart was a nice touch. Not to mention, the gorgeous delivery girl … or ‘friend.’” He chuckles, using air quotes.

“We’re just friends.” I try to define the lie I spoke only minutes ago. It’s more a hope than a deception, because I would like to be her friend while she’s in New York City. Return the favor preferably with her in my arms.

“I don’t understand this ‘friends’ business with young people. Men didn’t nuance their relationships with women in my day.”

“It’s not like that,” I object, because random hookups have never been part of my sex life. However, I can’t say how many girlfriends I’ve had over the years. Dozens perhaps.

“Sure,” he says with an epic eye-roll. “She’s smart and beautiful.” He pauses a beat. “You’re stupid.”

“She’s too young.”

It’s a fact—not an excuse. I’ve never dated anyone more than four years younger than me.

“That’s not what your father thought when he met your mother. He also never called her his friend.” Don crosses his arms over his chest, a look of victory in his eyes.

“But he did call her his secretary,” I say with a smirk, knowing my mother was so much more than an office worker to my father. She was, and still is, his everything.

“Minor details,” Don says in a matter-of-fact tone, and we both smile, because he’s right. Age is just a number when two adults are attracted to each other, or so I’ve heard from my parents.

“The devil is usually in those pesky details,” I add.

I hardly know anything about Miss Holly, other than she’s from Alabama, and maybe a little too trusting if she came to help me today without any solid facts.

“As you get older, you learn the devil haunts your regrets.” Don stays stone-faced, and I let his words of wisdom sink in. “Bring Tessa to the awards dinner. Make an old man happy and sit her next to me. In the meantime, I hope you get your head out of your ass and realize you can’t be friends with a woman like her. I can tell she’s already gotten under your skin.”

Has she? Or do I just want to get under her trench coat?